


natural order

by marcceh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Role Reversal, a case comedy, a jimcroft role reversal au, it doesn't get shippy for quite a while, more chars to be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2020-11-23 04:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20885891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marcceh/pseuds/marcceh
Summary: AU where Jim Moriarty runs the government and Mycroft Holmes is a secretive criminal consultant and somehow it's still all about Sherlock





	1. Chapter 1

On the far edge of the rooftop stands the silhouette of a Byronic hero, with his dark curls tousled by the wind, his long coat flying out dramatically like a cape. He examines the bustling city of London beneath him as a king would his prosperous lands. 

“Sherlock, the flight I have booked for you leaves in six hours. It is of the _ utmost importance _ to national security,” says a disgruntled but impeccably well-dressed man standing a ways from him, hands stuffed in coat pockets, grumbling and cold. It’s Jim Moriarty, the second most dangerous man in London.

Sherlock Holmes, the dramatic figure and hero of every story, shifts, presumably to answer. A _ ping! _ from his mobile sounds before he does - cutting off the reply. The news is joyous, apparently, because as he reads it in one hand he grasps his other into a fist.

“Aha!” Sherlock says, a half spin as he steps away from the roof’s edge sending the coat into a wonderful flutter. He heads straight for the door, only to be blocked by a slightly grumpy Jim. 

“What?” he asks, exasperated. “What is it now?”

“A murder!” Sherlock darts toward the door only to be stopped by the man.

“A _ murder?” _ Jim’s voice is stone cold, flat. But it soon rises to tempestuous levels. “Murder?? I’ve dozens of people dying in droves everyday, if it’s dead people you want to deal with. This hostage situation I’m sending you to consult on has plenty of casualties! You’re running off to solve _ one murder?” _

“It’s interesting.”

“Interesting! I’m handing you an international threat!”

Jim’s got his arms out now, waving erratically to bodily prevent Sherlock from squeezing past him and through the door. Sherlock’s not having it - he elbows him, and shoves past.

“What do you care, Moriarty!” Sherlock snaps, hurrying back down the stairs. “You’re not even British!” 

.

The headline 3RD SUICIDE MURDER VICTIM floats by as read on a stray tabloid in the park. Beyond that, there is a bench where a man with a cane is joining a second, bespectacled man for a seat. They chat, drinking coffee from paper cups. But this is not a clandestine meeting of government agents, and they feed no waterfowl. Despite the depressing, farce-like scenario, they manage to share a laugh. 

A moment later, the first man gestures to the second. He rises from the bench, and beckons him to follow along.

.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street,” the impossible man says before swaning out of the lab. He _ winks _ at John. Winks, and does a little tongue-in-cheek click thing. He might as well have added finger guns!

“What do you think?” Mike asks. 

Dr. John Watson, Afghanistan vet and former army surgeon, now practically an invalid, stares at his friend.

“What do I _ think?” _ The words come before he’s ready. “Well, he’s brilliant, frankly.”

“You’ll take him up on the flat then?”

Well, he wasn’t sure about living with the man. (Who was he kidding. Central London, and away from his miserable shoe box? Yes please.)

“How the hells do you spell ‘Sherlock’?”

.

221B Baker Street is easy enough to get to, so perhaps it didn’t matter how one spelled Sherlock Holmes after all. 

John limps his way from the cab to the building and hobbles his way up. He knocks on the door, and gets a response straight away - from behind him.

“Hello,” Sherlock says. He’s just gotten out of a cab. 

“Ah, Mr. Holmes.” John walks over.

“Sherlock, please.” They shake hands.

“Well, this is a prime spot,” John says. Small talk. “Must be expensive.”

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady - she’s giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”

He unlocks the door to let them in.

“Sorry - you stopped her husband being executed?” He really was a genius detective, wasn’t he?

“Oh no, I ensured it.” 

The door closes behind him. He looks up to see a - frankly disturbing - smile on Sherlock’s face. 

It helps, then, that almost immediately (before the terror can set in), an elderly lady sporting bright lipstick opens her arms.

“Sherlock, hello!”

He steps in for a brief hug, then gestures at John to make introductions.

“Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson.”

.

The flat is nicer than he expected - well, he wasn’t sure what he expected. Messy as all hell though - boxes and books everywhere, and lab equipment in the kitchen - Sherlock must have just moved in himself, and hadn’t had time to unpack. And there’s a skull.

“I looked you up on the internet last night,” John says. He has a blog - his therapist had been trying to get _ him _ to write a blog. Seemed fightfully boring.

“Anything interesting?” Sherlock asks. 

“Found your website, The Science of Deduction.”

“What did you think?”

John makes a face. Sherlock’s face falls. Oops. 

“You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.”

“Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.”

Sister. He still didn’t grasp the parlor trick though. Or more than a trick.

“How?” John asks. 

Sherlock smiles, but doesn’t respond. Mrs. Hudson walks back in with the newspaper.

“What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that’d be right up your street. Three exactly the same.”

“Four,” he corrects. He looks out the window, and spots a man coming up the steps. “There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time.”

“Where?” Sherlock asks - speaking not to Mrs. Hudson. The door opens, and Detective Inspector Lestrade steps in.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens,” he says.

“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.” Sherlock is deeply intrigued. 

“You know how they never leave notes?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“This one did.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Ariane DeVere](arianedevere.dreamwidth.org) for the transcripts!!


	2. Chapter 2

John watches Sherlock avoid the detective’s eyes, almost _ coy. _

“Will you come?” he asks.

“Who’s on forensics?” Sherlock says. 

“It’s Anderson.”

Whoever that is, Sherlock doesn’t like him. He grimaces, and there’s no clever snark in the expression.

“Anderson won’t work with me,” he says.

“Well, he won’t be your assistant,” the detective says; they’ve clearly had this talk before.

“I _ need _ an assistant,” Sherlock insists; it falls on deaf ears.

“Will you come?” Lestrade asks again.

“Not in a police car,” Sherlock acquiesces. “I’ll be right behind.”

“Thank you.”

He waits until Lestrade has entire left the building and then - quite literally jumps for joy. He twirls, even, in the living room with sheer happiness.

“Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it’s Christmas!” Sherlock grabs his coat, scarf, and throws on his armor as he heads to the kitchen.

It’s quite the sight.

“Mrs. Hudson, I’ll be late. Might need some food.”

“I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper,” she calls back.

“Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don’t wait up!”

John’s stomach sinks. 

Mrs. Hudson sighs.

“Look at him, dashing about!” she practically coos. “My husband was just the same. But you’re more the sitting-down type, I can tell.”

John looks as uncomfortable as he feels at the sudden reminder of his utter uselessness.

“I’ll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg,” she says, heading for the door.

“Damn my leg!” He can’t help the outburst; it shocks Mrs. Hudson, and he apologizes immediately, hitting the cursed limb with his cane. “Sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s just sometimes, this bloody thing…”

“I understand, dear; I’ve got a hip.”

She leaves for the tea, and John picks up a newspaper so he’s not just _ sitting around. _

“You’re a doctor.”

It’s not Mrs. Hudson; John looks up to see Sherlock’s return.

“In fact, you’re an Army doctor,” he says.

“Yes.” He was.

“Any good?” Sherlock asks. John gets to his feet.

“Very good.”

“Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths.”

“Yes.” Then, more quietly, he adds. “Far too much. Enough for a lifetime.”

Sherlock waits, just a bit.

“Want to see some more?”

“Oh God yes,” John practically leaps with joy himself this time, following Sherlock on his heels on their way out. 

He skips back a step, almost forgetting.

“Sorry Mrs. Hudson! I’ll skip the tea.”

.

Once in the taxi, next to Sherlock, he realizes he doesn’t actually know what’s going on. There’s a murder (suicide-murder?), they’re heading to Lauridson Gardens, but Sherlock is clearly not a detective, not quite cut from the same cloth as the Lestrade they’d earlier met.

“Okay, you’ve got questions,” Sherlock says. He lets him ask.

“I’d say private detective…” John hesitates.

“But?”

“But the police don’t go to private detectives.”

“I’m a consulting detective,” Sherlock answers with relish. “Only one in the world. I invented the job.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.” That doesn’t seem right.

“The police don’t consult amateurs.” And _ that _ rankles Sherlock - enough to give him a run down, a play-by-play of his little monologue from the other day at St. Bart’s. 

It’s...impressive.

“There you go, you see - you were right,” Sherlock says.

_ “I _ was right?” John has missed something. “Right about what?”

“The police don’t consult amateurs,” Sherlock says blithely.

Ha.

Sherlock casts his glance out the window.

“That...was amazing,” John says in honest appreciation. Sherlock turns all the way back around to look at him. To stare, really. 

“Do you think so?”

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary.” So much so it’s worth repeating. “Quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?” John asks.

“Piss off!” Sherlock smiles, and John grins back.


	3. Chapter 3

John is dazzled. 

Sherlock is dazzling; he steps into a room and seems to, near immediately, know exactly what’s happened inside, and how long ago. John can’t help but get swept up by the buoyant, lively way which Sherlock approached a grisly murder. He’s having  _ fun. _ For the first time since, hell, since he got  _ shot, _ he forgets to feel sorry for himself, and instead let’s himself feel the anticipation of the chase.

Then...Sherlock ditches him. John stands on the sidewalk, alone, and he wonders if they were right - all of them. More than that, he wonders whether he’s useless after all. It should put him off kilter that he’s more worried about having a role to play than whether that role is sidekick to a psychopath, but it doesn’t; he doesn’t care. 

He wants  _ more. _

John wanders a bit, slow to hail a cab. When he finally gathers the wherewithal to raise his arm, one comes immediately; one of those fancy black cars. 

John frowns - only until he sees who steps out of the car.

A sexy brunette, all curls and curves in a skirt suit that screams ‘sexy librarian fantasy’, steps out in her point heels and smiles at him.

John smiles back.

She hands him a card.

He looks down, a puzzled frown. It’s a thick, cream colored business card, with simple script pressed into the middle.

_ Mycroft Holmes _ .

“Mr. Holmes requests your acquaintance,” the woman says. Then she nods at him, and returns to her car. “Good day.”

John flips the card in his hand. Someone related to Sherlock then? There’s an address on the back.

Drat; she’d took off in the car, and he needed to hail a taxi after all. John holds out his arm.

.

The cab pulls up to a big, corporate building, and John doesn’t quite want to go in there after all. But he’d better not turn back, after going this far. He didn’t know where  _ back _ was. His shoebox room? 

He trudges out the cab and toward the looming tower of offices. Mycroft Holmes, some bigshot, eh?

He makes his way through lobby security and sign in, and is told to go to a certain floor, to turn left, use the right elevators. John scoffs. Probably lead to his private penthouse, it will.

He’s rather shocked when instead, the elevators take him down to a rather drab floor of the shiny building, where it is filled with tiny cubicles spread all over the ugly carpet. 

John gingerly limps ahead, following his instructions in search of Mycroft Holmes. Perhaps there were private offices near the back of the floor.

But no - a nameplate catches his eye. M. Holmes. John pokes his head into the nondescript cubicle, so similar to the rest. There are file folders all over the desk, and a nondescript man busying himself with spreadsheets and numbers as his cup of tea - oddly in a porcelain cup that doesn’t quite fit the rest of the workerbee aesthetic - grows cold.

John clears his throat.

“Mycroft Holmes?” he asks. 

The man glances up, and quirks a humorless smile.

“You’re late,” he says. “Took your time walking through the building, did you?”

John scowls, angry enough to leave, offended by the slight against his disability. He didn’t come all this way to be ridiculed by a stranger. He’d had enough of that for one day.

“Nevermind,” he says, gesturing to a wheeled stool in the corner. “Sit, sit.”

John reluctantly does so.

“What are your intentions towards my brother?” he asks, blinking owlishly before taking a sip of his tea. It’s definitely cold; he grimaces deeply before setting it back down.

“I - intentions?” John laughs darkly. 

“I just met him,” he answers in clipped tones. It feels like an interrogation. “And, well, he asked me to be his flatmate.” Why was he telling him this?

“Hmm.” Mycroft Holmes adopts an exceedingly pensive look, so contemplative it must be for show. “You see. Sherlock has had trouble adjusting to living alone in London. Yes, it would be of some benefit for him to...make friends. It’s good there will be someone to…. Keep an eye on him.”

He blinks.

“I would compensate you for any expenses, of course,” Mycroft says. “And obviously if you go on your leg shan’t bother you again.”

It takes John a moment to catch up, and even then he’s not sure he comprehends.

“Hang on, are you asking me to report on your brother?” John doesn’t wait for an answer; he stands. He hasn’t even decided to agree to move in to Baker Street yet, but this was none of this stranger’s business, was it? He tells Mycroft Holmes as much, and takes his leave.

. 

There’s a black car waiting for him when he leaves the building; he frowns as the door pops open as he gets to the sidewalk. It’s that same woman - and what kind of pencil pushing accountant has a private driver and personal assistant? 

“Come on,” she says. “I’ll drop you home. Least we can do for the disruption to your busy schedule.”

John wants to tell Mycroft Holmes to shove it, but there was no use taking it out on her. Plus, he could use the ride.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

The car drops him off at 221B, which was not where he was going at  _ all. _

  


The slew of mixed texts say otherwise, however. Sherlock’d been texting a storm, but when John hikes up the steps he finds the man lying all zen-like on the couch, no sense of urgency about him at all.

  


“What are you doing?” John asks.

  


“Nicotine patch. Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work.”

  


“Good news for breathing,” John adds. What a strange man.

  


“Oh, breathing,” Sherlock says dismissively. John can’t tell if it’s irony. He asks what’s the matter he had to come all the way cross London, and it turns out Sherlock needs a  _ phone. _ He’d been  _ texting him _ from a phone!

  


“There’s a number, over there on the table. I want you to send a text.”

  


John grumbles, but does so. Maybe those detectives were right, and Sherlock was a dangerous sort. 

  


And clearly John missed that; the danger. So much so he barely minds - is excited even - when he realized he’s texted a murderer. In all the excitement, he forgets to mention the odd meeting with his brother. Sherlock’s managed to locate the victim’s suitcase, and has rifled through all her things. Then, in sure Sherlock fashion, he sweeps out of the flat with John in tow and they go for dinner. 

  


“I love the brilliant ones – so desperate to get caught,” Sherlock says. Seems paradoxal.

  


“Why?” John asks.

  


“Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight. That’s the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience.”

  


John looked pointedly at Sherlock. It sure does. 

  
The cab theory doesn’t pan out, but it sure gives them a rush. The two new potential flatmates stumble into said flat near giggles, only to stumble across a crime scene. 

  


At their entrance, two men turn to look at Sherlock - one’s Lestrade, who John met earlier, lounging in the armchair as if he owns the place. The other man he hasn’t seen before; a shorter, dark fellow in a very expensive coat - expensive everything, likely, from the shoes John can see. He’s standing, impatient, and he glares.

  


“Sherlock, our dear detective here tells me you’ve been wasting your time on a common murder,” he says.

  


_ “Serial _ murderer,” Lestrade corrects, exasperated. 

  


“What are you doing?” Sherlock says.

  


“Well, I knew you’d find the case. I’m not stupid,” Lestrade says, the same time the new fellow crosses over to Sherlock saying. “You missed your flight. I’ve booked another.”

  


“You can’t just break into my flat,” Sherlock says, annoyed.

  


“And you can’t withhold evidence,” Lestrade says. “And I didn’t break into your flat. It’s a drugs bust.”

  


John gives him an incredulous look.

  


“Sherlock, no more games; I’m tied up and can’t leave the country, and I need you in Georgia by the end of the week latest,” says the impatient one, who is clearly ignoring the detective, who is in turn ignoring him.

  


“Who is this?” John asks.

  


Sherlock scowls. “Moriarty, I’m busy.”

  


“And this is of national importance,” Moriarty says.

  


“Go find someone else to be your government whore.”

  


John throws incredulous looks all around the room. 

  


“Um.”

  


“Jim Moriarty,” he introduces himself. “And you’re Dr. John Watson.”

.

“John, do  _ not _ associate with this man, he will only drag us down with him into the bowels of bureaucracy,” Sherlock warns. Then he mutters, darkly, “our mortal nemesis; dangerous in another way, possibly one of the most dangerous men in London. But he is insistent on  _ boring _ us to death.”

  


Anderson chooses right then to enter the living room from the kitchen with a jar of eyes, causing Sherlock to go off on the very presence, the sheer existence of this imbecile for a minute or two, before he tries to show proof to Lestrade that he is clean and sober. 

  


Then Lestrade tells them,

  


“We’ve found Rachel.”

  


Too bad she’s dead; the victim’s stillborn daughter. Three conversations go on at once, and John wonders whether this is regular occurence at 221B, when Mrs. Hudson comes in and alerts Sherlock there’s a taxi outside.

  


Moriarty frowns. “Taxi? I already have a car waiting for you.”

  


Sherlock ignores him, again, and Lestrade manages to bring up the GPS of the dead woman’s phone and then - John turns to see that Sherlock has gone.


	5. Chapter 5

“Under absolutely no circumstances will you engage with Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft types into his secure line, converting the text into a robotic soundbite that gets sent down to his latest client.

Of course, this case was  _ for _ Sherlock, but it wasn’t for Sherlock to  _ know _ it was for Sherlock. That would….defeat the purpose, in a way. 

Goodness knows he wouldn’t have taken on something like this if not for Sherlock - this was one of what he considered his pro bono cases. He wasn’t making a cent, really, in fact he was actually losing quite a pretty penny.

Jeff Hope had discovered he was terminally ill several months ago, and Mycroft’s inferred psychiatric assessment of the man hit all the required points. Here was a man with absolutely nothing left to lose, who would do anything he could to leave a mark before he left. 

Mycroft couldn’t very well offer him health, but he could offer him money - a sizable penance to repay his estranged adult children. He took it, gratefully, barely batting an eye when Mycroft made his requirements. 

Mycroft sighed; Faust was a terrible lie. Humans didn’t trade their souls for eternal wisdom, they’d give it all away for a couple of extra zeros in their bank account or a night with a drunken starlet. It was so inane, so predictable. If he didn’t have  _ so _ many projects to preoccupy his need for little puzzles, he might have had to…to…..re-evaluate his life.

In any case, he thought it his brotherly duty to occupy Sherlock every once in a while. And if it helped keep his newly minted detective sibling off the scent of his major works, well, that was all the better. Mycroft is a fan of efficiency, after all.

.

The first kill goes off without a hitch; almost too easily, in fact. Mr. Hope develops a taste for blood (or, money. Or blood money), and the police are none the wiser. 

Which is a problem - Mycroft wants the police so baffled they resort to bringing in his no-longer-a-junkie brother. Well. No longer a  _ drug _ junkie. He was still an adrenaline junkie, of a different sort, lately having gotten back into his old hobby of solving  _ crime. _

A perilous position for Mycroft, perhaps, what with his stock and trade being in crime. At first he’d thought it not a coincidence - so unusual that his dundering soft-headed little brother had developed a clever thought. But alas, his shock and surprise was short-lived. Sherlock had developed this interest having no idea what it was Mycroft really did for a living. There was no ulterior motive at all, save, perhaps, for dressing like a swash-buckling hard-boiled detective straight out of a noir mini-series. 

The first kill goes off without a hitch, but Mycroft knows the second kill will make an impact.

Even if done cleanly - which it should, which it  _ will be, _ the fact that two suicides take place using the same unusual, ingested poison, should draw suspicion. If not from the Met, then definitely from Sherlock.

Oh he’s hot on their trail now, pestering to be let on board to do his sniffing around and poking about. They manage to keep him at a polite, arms-length. This Lestrade fellow is truly a saint. 

(Mycroft wonders, briefly, whether Sherlock would’ve fared better growing up with an older brother like  _ him _ instead.)

The third goes off with a bang -  _ everyone _ knows they are murders now, though the catchy “serial suicides” headlines stick, and Sherlock is circling the bloody waters. 

Sherlock’s made such a ruckus Mr. Hope is sure to have noticed him. Mycroft reiterates his message: do not engage. There is radio silence.

The  _ fourth _ kill….well, that’s a mistake. 

Oh, he’d picked someone a little smarter than the norm, and the crime scene must deviate from the norm enough that the police pay Sherlock a house call. 

He says nothing to Hope, having already given his instructions twice - once more than he preferred. Now it was time to sit back and watch. 

Mycroft will not admit this out loud, but he is more than interested in seeing how his younger brother will react. He’s helped the Met on many cases, but nothing impossible yet. He’s merely sped up their timeline in closing said cases.

He hopes Sherlock appreciates the trouble (well, signing the checks, and leaving instructions  _ was _ trouble) he’s gone through to create such an interesting little diversion.

.

Good riddance! Mycroft thinks.

The idiot Hope had gone and  _ confessed _ to Sherlock, to his face no less. He’d shut off his direct line with Mycroft and went on to  _ blab _ about everything and anything. 

Mycroft doesn’t know whether he’s more upset about  _ this _ , the  _ deliberate disobedience _ , or if he’s more upset with Sherlock’s own reaction.

Just because you were a junkie didn’t mean you had to try every pill you were handed! 

Stupid younger siblings. 

Oh, he’s  _ upset _ . Mycroft frets, for just a moment, then paces, hands all aflutter.

He’d make himself a cup of tea.

His brother was hell on his nerves. But watching the kettle steam and boil settles them.

Good that Dr. John Watson had shot the annoying little man. But  _ bad _ that Dr. John Watson was now an unknown variable in the equation.

He’d have to increase surveillance, and see if he ended up helping or harming Sherlock. 


	6. Chapter 6

It is a tech day, Mycroft feels, and makes plans to stop by his office at the e-commerce company he worked for, one of five corporations on whom he was a staff accountant, enough for each day of the week.

Of course, none of them knew him as Mycroft Holmes (the nameplate had been for Dr. Watson’s benefit), and none of them knew he was on the payroll of four other companies as a full time pencil pusher. Ah, what a blessing it is to pass as ordinary, just one of many of London’s unwashed public (figuratively; Mycroft’s own cleanliness habits errs toward the side of compulsion). 

As a result, Mycroft rarely does any actual work. He’s written a program to do most of the tedious things for him, such as processing payroll and accounts billable, and then occasionally he’d stop in for meetings and make tough budget cut suggestions (and spread office gossip). 

It only takes twenty minutes sitting at his (slightly dusty) desk to remind Mycroft why he so rarely set foot in. Gods this was ghastly. The tedium. The people. The hideous fluorescent lighting.

He twiddled his thumbs, for a moment, then pulled out his laptop to hack into the London CCTV to be nosy.

He could be doing this from the comfort of his own home! With a tea. And some biscuits. Well, he didn’t have any biscuits. It was on his grocery list though. Ugh, groceries. Couldn’t he just order in? But in the meantime, he could purchase a pastry for the morning. 

“I wonder if I should hire a butler,” Mycroft mutters to himself, putting the laptop away back in his bag. He’d stop at a cafe, the new one with the blessedly buttery Kouign-amann pastries, and an espresso. Yes, a very fruitful morning all in all.

A butler was a lovely idea. A butler to bring him buttery pastries….no, he’d never be able to hire one he could trust. Human beings were inevitably the biggest security risks of all.

Perhaps he could build a robot. Why work at a tech company if you couldn’t reappropriate their AI developments for your own leisure?

.

Jim sits in the back seat of an armored dark vehicle; standard government issue, and makes a very difficult call. 

The ex-Colonel answers on the second ring, and Jim stifles a sigh. It’s a reminder that this is about sheer efficiency.

He relays the job in brief, vague terms, and gives Sebastian Moran and drop location for the rest of the details.

“I don’t like using freelancers to deal with freelancers, but I need someone mobile and quick and able to work alone,” Jim adds, not wanting the man to think he’s back in their good graces. Dangerous as this man was when he was desperate, worse was when he felt content - then he got  _ sloppy. _

“I’m flattered,” the man says, voice lined with a chuckle.

“Believe me, you weren’t my first choice,” Jim says, staring out the window. 

“That detective of yours not returning your calls?”

Jim hangs up without another word. This was the absolute worst thing about smartphones - it was so lackluster to hang up by pressing a button; he missed the slamming of a heavy receiver and the subsequent ringing of the rotary phone. Alright, he’s not old enough to have needed one of those, but at least the flip phones had let you snap the thing shut like an angry otter abusing a clamshell. The indignity of the modern age was going to be the death of all sensibilities. Truly, the end of a civilization.

He needed caffeine, stat.

Jim has his driver pull up to a cafe, where in his haste he ends up knocking over another patron’s drink, resulting in a soaked Kouign-amann and possibly now defunct laptop. 


	7. Chapter 7

By age 12, Mycroft Holmes had attended (and been kicked out of) already a dozen schools. 

He stares at the paramedics carrying the body of an upperclassman - a swimmer - out from the gym’s pool and into the ambulance when they really needed a hearse. 

Lucky number 13 wasn’t turning out so lucky, after all. 

Mycroft wouldn’t exactly call himself superstitious, but in fact that is exactly what he is. This mid-semester death that had occured at a big public event not two weeks into his arrival had Mycroft spooked. It was a bad omen, he was sure.

Quietly, he leaves the gym, through the opposite way the now deceased boy had. He stops by the locker rooms, and pokes his head in. There, sticking out from little Carl’s locker, were his trainers - bright white and well cared for. Something itched at Mycroft, and he snuck into the room before he realized, and handled the shoes with a plastic bag, making his exit only three minutes before the police would arrive to further canvas the scene. 

Mycroft starts walking without a destination in mind. Anywhere but here, where hapless students were suffering drowning accidents, of all things! He makes a second stop, by the headmaster’s office while commotion reigned in the gym, to nick some papers, cash, and other items that might come in handy to help him forge a temporary identity while he found his way.

.

Rudolph Mulberry placidly waits for the train to stop, taking his time to gather his things, coat, scarf, reading glasses, ah his hat, and of course the briefcase. The rest of his things were traveling by car.

The payphone he passes on his way out of the train station inspires a spark of guilt in him - he really should call his sister. But he doesn’t. He continues on, having a rather pressing meeting to get to.

Jakob, damn the man, was getting cold feet. This was why Rudolph preferred not to work with defectors, but train up his own men who had a sense of loyalty.

He stops in a run down cafe and orders a cup of tea - it’s disgusting - and waits with his newspaper. Eight minutes later, a body slides into the seat across from him, and not the one he was expecting.

“You’ve lost a lot of weight,” Rudolph says, frowning down at the dark eyes staring back up at him.

“I don’t think he’s coming,” the child says. Maybe 10 years of age, similar to his nephew. One of his nephews. Ah yes the one he’d forgotten. 

“Who?” Rudolph asks, raising an eyebrow. He’d through the small boy, Irish, dark haired, looking a little worse for wear, was a messenger his dear, dear defector had sent along. Possibly not. What kind of man used children to run his errands anyway? Couldn’t be trusted.

The boy hesitates, eyes darting across the street. Rudolph follows.

“He doesn’t stick out, but he’s new to town,” the boy explains. He’s not himself, he means. “He’s come here before, to check the sightlines of the building.”

“And how do you know that?” Rudolph interrupts. 

The boy looks the room corner to corner for show; Rudolph follows his line of sight.

“I’m not an idiot,” the boy says, not sounding particularly offended, or particularly anything.

He certainly wasn’t.

“And now here you are, sitting where he was sitting,” he adds.

“Who doesn’t want a window seat?” Rudolph says, now convinced the boy isn’t working for someone at all. He only stares back with his big dark eyes - no answer then. Struggling to put together the evidence from conclusions that come so fast they read as intuition. Rudolph could work with that; the boy already had an eye for detail, and a sound logical mind. And apparently no guardian who cared enough to put decent clothes on or a decent meal in the boy.

Rudolph sets down his newspaper, then folds it as he speaks. 

“What were you hoping to get out of this?” he asks. The boy looks down at that. “A tip for your information, perhaps? Was that really worth the risk of approaching a man dangerous enough to work so covertly in the first place? You must learn to consider the results, from all angles. Such a dangerous man could easily make someone as small and frail and powerless as yourself disappear without a care.”

The boy huffs, plonking an elbow down on the table, resting his cheek in his hand as he stares out the window.

“I could bring you information instead, since the man you’re meeting has run away. You can tell I’m good at it,” he says in a mumble.

Rudolph wants to laugh, but opts not to draw the attention.

“Spy work is not as simple as you’ve been thinking, boy,” he says just as quietly, sounding more threatening than amused.

Then he stands, pushing his chair out with a sweep of his arm.

“In any case, come along.”

The boy stares up at him in surprise, the brief confusion - was he going to be disappeared after all?

“I’ve a train to catch and another boy to pick up,” the man says. He heads out the door and the boy follows, jogging a bit to catch up.

“My nephew, you see,” Rudolph continues, swinging his briefcase as he walks. “He’s a bit of a...troublemaker, and his mother wants to take him out of school. And place him with me to do his learning.”

He gives the boy beside him a stern look at that.

“A boy your age should be in school as well,” he grouches.

“But they’re all idiots there,” he replies blithely. “Even teachers.”

“No doubt they are,” Rudolph says with a sigh, more to himself. “Come along then, I’m sure young Michael could use a friend.”

“Jim,” the boy suddenly says.

Rudolph stops walking to peer down with confusion.

“That’s my name, Jim,” the boy offers again.

“Ah!” Introductions. Right. “Well, you can call me Mr. M.”

.

Jim sits outside the headmaster’s office at the small boarding school they’ve arrived in, willing himself not to rifle through the unattended things. If he behaved himself, he might land a job, he reasoned. He’d read every spy novel he could get his hands on, and thought it an interesting enough job that it could probably hold his attention for a whole five years. Then he would leave to go do something else, of course, in the dead of the night with no one the wiser. 

M, the man, comes back out of his short meeting with a frown on his face and it doesn’t seem like either of his meetings have gone the way he expected today. Jim is starting to wonder whether this man has bad luck and isn’t worth working for after all, but then brushes the idea aside.

“So, are you going to dump me here?” Jim asks, masking his caution. 

The man looks lost in thought for a moment, saying nothing but a long “hmmmmm.”

“No,” he finally says. “It seems we’ve just missed him.”

He turns to address Jim, in a “come along now” gesture.

“Well, we must be off.”


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft glares down at the cream, sturdy business card reading nothing but _ J. Moriarty _ along with an office line and extension that no doubt led to some assistant’s work mobile. The assistant in question had handed Mycroft the card along with a not-quite-apology, instructing him to give the number a call in order to remedy the situation for his laptop, and, as it was implied, take care of his cleaning bill.

_ Moriarty_ himself had given Mycroft just a glance before grabbing his coffee and waving his assistant over to deal with things as he rushed back to his car. So he was the government nuisance who’d been trying to recruit Mycroft’s brother. Interesting. More tightly wound than he let on. Shorter than Mycroft had imagined. But very well dressed.

Mycroft sighs and pulls out his wallet, jacket still dripping with frothy milk and espresso, as he returned to the counter. He didn’t come all this way just to _ not _ have his blessedly buttery pastry, coffee kerfuffle or not.

The young lady behind the till gives him a smile.

“On the house,” she says, passing him a paper bag with his kouign amann all ready. Bless her heart!

.

“You met my...brother?” Sherlock turns around to stare at John, interrupting his own rant about the lack of interesting cases down at Scotland Yard combined with the awful tedium that was government work which Moriarty insisted on trying to pawn off on him. 

John gives him a wry smile.

“Let me guess, an endless sibling spat? I’m no stranger to that.”

Sherlock’s expression isn’t as begrudgingly relatable as he expected. Instead he looks, worried maybe. John hasn’t known Sherlock Holmes long enough to ever see him worried.

“I haven’t seen him since we were children,” Sherlock finally says. Another pause. He seems to straighten himself up. “I didn’t even know he was in London.”

Sherlock seems to be going for nonchalant, voice carefully devoid of feeling without sounding robotic as he did during deductions when he wanted to scare that forensics officer into backing down. 

Then, quietly, almost to himself, he adds,

“Why didn’t he come see me?”

The _ instead _ is implied. John had launched into a dramatic retelling of his encounter with Mycroft Holmes as the two of them had left Sebastian Wilkes’s office, intending to cheer Sherlock up after the not-so-subtle put down of his social skills. His brother was clearly worse, was what John had been trying to imply. Instead, he’d stumbled across a story of long-estranged siblings. At least there was never a dull moment with Sherlock Holmes, that much he could say for sure. John felt as if he was living in the middle of a Victorian novel, where London was of course teeming with crime, and family histories were all ripe with lurid affairs and secret siblings. 


End file.
